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her grief at having to part from him she loved so well, Many returned home with her heart lighter than it had been for many a day before; for no sorrow or privation is so galling to the young and pure mind as the sting of a wounded conscience. As she entered the house, the old servant Betsy met her.

"Oh, Miss Mary!" she said, "wherever have 'ee been? Who have 'ee been with? Missus is in a wisht way sure 'nough about 'ee. She was a little way out to walk in the wood just now, and she fancied she seed 'ee parting wi' a strange man. I don't think she'll say nothing to 'ee about it, but don't 'ee never do so no more. Don't 'ee, my dear Miss Maiy. I know you don't mean no harm, but no good can come of they things unbeknown to your mother. My dear Miss Mary, don't 'ee never do it no more!"

Without a word, Mary broke from the old servant, and ran quite frightened to her room. Of all the things which could happen, that which she had dreaded most was that her mother should of herself discover what had taken place, and know that she had concealed it from her; and this had now occurred! After a while she summoned resolution to go to her chamber.

Mrs. Atherton, with the signs of recent tears on her pale face, was seated at the window, looking sorrowfully out at the fast fading light of the western sky. She called Mary to her, clasped her to her bosom, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

"Leave me now, my dear," she said; I have something to tell you presently, but not yet. Come to me again in an hour from this time."

Grieved and agitated, Mary withdrew. She did not doubt that her mother's sorrow was caused by what she had seen in the wood, but, from her manner, she thought that she had something besides to speak of; and as the heavy, weary hour was creeping on, she tormented herself by all sorts of painful fancies as to what it could be. One idea, however, gave her pleasure; she had now put an end to the wrong she had been doing. And, oh! how devoted, she thought, she would evermore be to her dear mother! How, by every little kindness and attention, she would strive to make up for what had passed! Again she would be ever at her side, and would pick her flowers as she had used to do when she was a little girl. Again she would be all to her that she had been—ay more than she had ever been before. And the tears gushed from her eyes, through the very yearning of her heart.

When the hour had passed, she again went to her mother's room. She found her still seated at the window, in the same position, with her cheek resting on her hand, and her sad eyes gazing up into the sky. There was no candle lit, and the room would have been quite dark, but for the bright evening star, which shed its soft light full upon Mrs. Atherton's upturned face. She bade Mary sit at her side, and then gently taking her hand, she said:

"It is a long time," Mary, since I have told you a story: I am now